


Amavi

by Malignant_Interloper



Category: For Honor (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, For Honor, Grief, Smut, Sorrow, VideoGame, explicit - Freeform, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malignant_Interloper/pseuds/Malignant_Interloper
Summary: Set in the universe of Ubisoft's alternate medieval history of FOR HONOR, this fanfiction details the tribulations of a Warden suffering from survivor's guilt after a long campaign in the northern Viking region of Valkenheim, finding himself the new owner of property meant as the inheritance for his deceased friend and of a Viking slave that is given to him as spoils of war.
Kudos: 5





	1. "Every Word, Every Sound"

Peace bred war. War made peace, and it left behind a surviving generation weary of its grueling growing pains, wrought with the sacrifice of too many souls to count.

Some would say every soul is changed by the touch of battle. Some, like Marco Garland, would agree with that sentiment.

He had not died, but as he watched his greatest friend be interned into the frozen Valkenheim ground, he wished he had been dead. Enduring the next five months in a three month campaign were that much more difficult without him.

He could scarcely believe it when the sun did not hide behind low northern clouds. Not low, the ground was higher. Marco did not envy God high up in cold… cold Heaven.

The sweat on his brow and on his skin and on his hands underneath the silver-tipped iron of his armors were a welcome distant friend he had begun to think were mere dreams of a life before this life. That long had his mind been muddled with frost, shivering wet body bidding morn to the only reason that seemed to exist in Valkenheim.

Men died overnight. The cold could snuff out a soul's fire if the will was not as a stone wall, impenetrable, and the spirit would be called away to wander the unending forests and eternal snow, becoming white falling memories of Mount Rust.

Marco pondered too much now. The Warden wondered if the cold had softened his resolve, or hardened it through every frigid night, when he felt his tears freeze at his temples, alone with his thoughts under the stars.

There was no sleeping the first night Marco was safe behind an Ashfeld fort's walls.

Her breathing was ragged as she rested on his lap, rolling her hips against his own in the darkness of his room, licking his ear and whispering his name with a honeyed tone.

She was resting her thighs. His lap drenched in her body's lust for him, drinking of his presence, tearing strands of much too long hair off his scalp when she felt him gnaw at the end of body at the most uncomfortable angle. The thorns to every rose, as it were.

Marizia had always known what she wanted out of life, from every facet of it.

Scars on her arms, whipped into her skin by the mentors in the Warden's Order, frustrated by her twisted flair that seeped into her sword form. She wanted to fight as she wanted.

Broken nose, cracked ribs, twisted elbow, countless injuries she inflicted on the men and women she took into her bed, lapping at the frustrations of the needy. She wanted to fuck as she wanted.

She missed him. For the months after her fall in battle, carried away south to die and recuperating instead, she waited for her favorite lover.

Marco did not believe her when she told him she waited, leading him to a room on his time for rest and relaxation, barely able to contain her excitement in that drunkenly hugging blouse that spilled the flesh of her breasts.

He did not believe her until he entered her, chilled muscles straining until there was no cold that was not engulfed in her warmth, a vice to welcome him back into the real world.

"I'm sorry about Jon…" Marizia spoke in the darkness as Marco laid on his back and she rested her head on his shoulder. The bed was barely big enough for the two of them, and he had his arm downwards to slowly circle his thumb at the small of her back.

She could feel his heart race to a gallop at the mention, even at rest, the thud of his swallow up at his throat, the long exhale from his nose that depressed his ribcage.

"Me, too." Marco answered, the circling resuming, occupied mind drawing life back into his thumb.

"When I heard that he'd… I should've been there to save him instead of being back here dying of infection. I couldn't get you out of my mind." Her thoughts were sporadic. She relived weeks in a second, and Marco wished she'd been born mute. He'd give up every crude joke and wild tease she'd ever uttered just to never experience this conversation right now, right here.

Marco had been pushing Jonathon from his mind to save himself the pain. If it was feasible to have carried his body back to Ashfeld, he would've volunteered himself. As it was, surrounded by Viking parties, the choice to bury him was both to grant the man's soul some peace and to spare the camp the indignity of watching the Lawbringer rot and foul the air.

The universe in Marizia's mind revolved around her, and she forewent noticing that Marco had not answered her in that tert silence he offered. She continued to speak.

"He was a good man. He was a great friend…" Came her words, and as horrible as it made Marco feel, to him, her words came hollow. She did not know him as he did, as long as he had, keeping the gate to mourning Jonathon fairly locked tight.

He knew he had no claim on sorrow for Jon, but feelings were not logic.

Days came and went, and Marco was dropped back into the routine of life in Ashfeld, or rather, expected to. A senseless denial plagued his resolve, to see that the world had not stopped for his grief, clean shaven face populated by brown trickles of his coming beard while he watched the second caravan arrive from Valkenheim.

Leftover supplies, leftover soldiers… prisoners of war.

These were not the days of Apollyon, lopping heads from necks on pushes forward or on slow retreats from victorious battles. The Vikings had little in the way of goods to plunder, and soldiers needed plunder to yarn their greedy dreams away from abandonment of their posts.

Though the spoils contained Viking-reaped gold from the coasts of Ashfeld and its monasteries, its best taken export was in the market for flesh, for slaves in a free country.

It would certainly astonish the commoner to know just how many Vikings and Samurai actually resided in Ashfeld at any given time, serving as field workers and farm tenders and house keepers to the lords and ladies that settled the better volcanic soil of this western land. The numbers could amount to a terrifying insurrection.

Marco gave it no real thought, watching the shackled Vikings being led through the courtyard and towards the dungeon structure.

He pitied them, and he felt sympathy for them, but he had enough strength of mind to know that, unlike Marizia, he had no way of knowing just how horrid it must feel to be a prisoner in a foreign land…

No philosophical musing on the nature of the imprisonment of dutiful military service could compare to actual iron chaining wrists and shins together to await a fate beyond control.

Marco's concentration returned to him as the Ironwood Legion's Commander, his legion's commander, addressed him later that night in that same courtyard amidst a formation of all the warriors that belonged to an Order.

"Marco… Say something…" Marizia hissed beside him, the metal of his gauntlet tapping against his own.

"Garland over here!" The Warden exclaimed, raising his head a little more and realizing he had to approach the front.

He did so, and the commander shook his hand with a nod, squeezing the unprepared appendage into an aching dull pain. As he'd done for the past ten soldiers, he congratulated Marco.

"For meritorious service and outstanding bravery in battle, I present you with this golden token." The commander spoke.

There was more to the speech, but nothing that reached Marco's ears, looking at the applause from his peers and the soldiers that stood around the fort to bear witness. The entire legion was present, as a feast was to commence, celebrating the fact that no more Ironwood soldiers resided outside of its walls.

The token was perfectly circular, and flat, empty but weak to be stamped when it was spent. It served one purpose; bounty.

He could take his weight in pillage if he wished with the token. Somehow, the thought did not appeal to him tonight.

He did not drink as the feast roared on in the fort, or perhaps he drank so much that he ascended past inebriation into a stone-like trance, staring at the stone wall that was used to scribe the names of the fallen.

"Jonathon 'Timber' Fieraguila IV."

Marco knew not how long he stared, but it had been long enough for someone to get worried and call for Marizia to get her friend.

"He'd want you to celebrate, you know?" She spoke beside him, barely drawing Marco from his stupor.

"I can't…" He answered back, and it was the truth. No joy would arise.

"Sure you can… You just need a little more drink in you…" Marizia petitioned sadly, knowing more alcohol wouldn't help her friend right now. She had an eye for the pissed drunk, and it was clear by the way Marco swayed in his stoic stature that he was one drop away from taking a nap. To some, that would be preferable to wallowing, but Marizia wanted to dance the sadness from his bones in her own selflessly selfish manner.

"How long has it been since he died?" Marco asked aloud, a thought escaping his mouth, a wonder not meant to be asked but pondered.

Marizia did not know, truly. She could not, as she was not present. She only found out after the fact.

The answer was months. It had been months since he had died, and Marco had come to the slow and dreadful realization that he had never mourned his friend.

Valkenheim had swirled his life into a nightmare, unrealistic situations of sordid machinations that beheld him no importance but personal survival. Only now, safe from that creeping and surrounding death, could Marco work out his loss, even if it had built up like a failing dam.

"I was going to wait, but… here… You need this." Marizia spoke again, the rustling of her fumbling hand drawing out a sealed letter stamped with the very familiar insignia of a wing-shielded eagle that chilled the Warden to belook upon.

His shaking hands were no longer steady from the ale, peeling apart the hardened wax politely before opening the letter to translate the words as he scanned them;

"Marco,

I struggle to write the words in this letter and I would be embarrassed to have you know the amount of times I rewrote this, however short it is.

When the news arrived, I was struck with hysteria. When the condolences became clear, the words held no meaning, for I had lost my son and the world became as the words.

Jon told me much of you in our correspondence. Even in that stale prose he bore, it was clear to a mother how much you truly meant to him. A life could've gone by at the estate and he would have never found so great a companion had he not joined the Order.

So it is to you that I write this, to thank you for filling my child's heart with honest love before he was called on by our Heavenly Father.

There are so many things I will never get to say to him now, so many things I won't ever get to share with him, so I leave them to you, as this war has claimed two of my children now.

Within the Heartlands lies twenty acres of land under your name, and a modest estate home resides there, should you choose to accept this gift. It was to be Jon's. I know he would've liked for you to have it.

Even if you don't accept it, please take the time to visit an old woman and regale her of tales of her son at his happiest.

Francesca Fieraguila"

Marco read the letter, and reread it till the sun rose and his tears had dried on the parchment beside Jon's mother's own tears, looking at the indent that Marizia had left upon his bed before she left come morning.

She knew already of his surprise inheritance, knew since she'd read it over his shoulder and rubbed his shoulders and spoke words that fell on his deafened ears. She seemed excited.

He found her again when he walked about the courtyard, the woman speaking to their commander, beckoning him over happily.

Marco did approach the two, unsure of what to expect as the commander spoke in that tone deaf voice that plagued him.

"I'm told you own a little more land today, Lord Garland. Another congratulations, of course." The commander spoke first, standing half a head taller than both Marco and Marizia.

Marco had already begun to regret letting Marizia view the contents of the letter, but he thanked his commander either way.

"With the war winding down, I've been convinced that allowing you the respite to tour your new property should be in order. Some time outside these walls might do you some good, too."

It was a strange comment from what was an unfeeling man. Perhaps he wasn't so emotionally stunted. Maybe Marco's darkened demeanor had become too visible, as his unkempt growing beard did him no favors.

"... Thank you, ser. I'll… be sure to visit it sometime…" Marco answered quietly. Truth be told, he had no intentions of going there. He could not bear the thought of living in Jon's inheritance. It was a foolish gift from a grieving mother, and he was waiting for her to come to her senses.

Marizia almost rolled her eyes at his answer. There was certainly an ulterior motive behind her gossip. Marco knew she wanted to come along to christen the damned place.

"Sometime? Today, I believe, would be a good time to take your leave, while nothing is taking up our schedule." The commander responded, and Marco understood it was not a suggestion. Marizia was looking pleased, a familiar consummated face.

Marco wanted to retort, but there was no recourse.

"And now that you've got some… property beyond your sword to attend to, it's only fitting that you take a helping hand with you."

The Warden bowed his head. He knew what this meant, too. Marizia chuckled lowly as she patted her friend's back. The commander pointed at a passing pikeman.

"You there. Head into the dungeon and speak to The Beak. Tell him to pick one of the Vikings to give over to Lord Garland here, and if he gives you any trouble, tell him I said it." He waved the young man off, and the soldier jogged to his destination as Marizia glared confusedly at the commander.

Marco did not, in fact, know everything after all.

"Eight Vikings, that man picked. Eight! He can spare one… I'm going to need your token, too. You see what happens when you let a man accumulate eight of these things."

The two Wardens bade their leave from their commander, their path subconsciously leading them to the dungeon's entrance. Marizia appeared less than pleased with the outcome, stewing in some contempt and taking glances in Marco's direction.

"I suppose I'm stuck here while you go off to enjoy your private paradise." She grumbled, like a leaking spout that meant no harm.

"You told him. I didn't want to even mention it." The Warden replied just as quietly, stopping in his tracks to address his peer.

"I'm sorry. You're right… This is on me… He's had me on patrols since I got better. I'm sure it's just too late to get me off the next rotation and I can go with after." Marizia commented, almost like she was convincing herself. Marco had no response to assure her.

He could feel his heart in his ears, pounding, listening to her talk as it dawned on him that he was going to have to escort a Viking a whole province over. A Viking, an enemy he'd spent months fighting against.

Where some could let that anger go to own a human being, he did not think himself that callous or even capable of being the bigger man to dispose of that boil in his blood at the thought of a hundred rabid Vikings ambushing the patrol that took Jon from him.

So when he looked to behold the sight of that same soldier leading a small woman out of the dungeon by a chain to her neck amidst bound roped wrists, the Warden's blood stilled, and fantasies of rolling one last head on the ground evaporated.

Hair as dark as night, eyes akin to the very light that escaped her mane, a white drowned in the faintest of blue hue, the Viking woman winced at the pull on the back of her neck. Her gaze landed on him as the soldier recognized Marco and began to bring the property to the Warden.

Lips dried and pale skin marred by wounds only fists could bring about, evidence of the process used to break these people into submission. The Viking wordlessly sized Marco, judged him and found him lacking, spitting on the ground before him only to receive the punishment of a backhanded slap by the soldier for her insolence. She glared at the Warden anyway.

Marizia was in the same state of shock as the Warden to her side. The woman’s mouth opened to say something, anything, but she only uttered the one word that had melded into Marco’s.

“Shit.”


	2. "One Way, To Stay"

Marco did not know what his plan was.

He could only stare at the Viking sitting haplessly atop a rotting log, thumb digging between the ropes that bound her wrists together to scratch at the itching raw skin caused by the rough hemp. 

He did not mean to take her. The orders were clear; mandatory leave of absence, rest and relax and shake off the melancholy.

Doubtful that the commander believed Marco would even travel to the gifted estate, the Warden had packed his belongings that entire day with the help of Marizia. In his room, she brought up her concerns regarding the man being alone with a Viking.

“It’s stupid. You just got back from duty, how can he expect you to take a damned heathen along into Ashfeld?” Marizia spat along as she watched Marco fold his clothes into a bag. She hadn’t touched a thing.

Marco was dressed in all his iron, sans his helm and his gloves, grateful for the momentary distraction from his thoughts that had been substituted by the anxious sensation that accompanied not knowing what in God’s name he was to do alone with a woman he had every right to hate.

He supposed it was the same feeling he got looking at Marizia. For all intents and purposes… he disliked her greatly, but she made so much sense in the darkness, her hands wielding him like a longsword, and he was a tool she was so familiar with.

Maybe that was why he stopped packing for the moment and kissed her. Just to shut her up, to get a moment of fucking silence and to think on what he was to do as she groaned lustfully above him while he sucked at her neck.

His hand swam across her dirty blonde composure, pushing harmlessly against the stray knots of her hair until she went on the offensive, wordlessly exhaling while tenderly guiding him down to his knees, his back against the bed.

Her efforts to undo the belt that held her pants up took a moment. Marco was sure she’d been an expert at the motion, but now he was only sure she could only operate in the darkness, ruthless and instinctual, moon-driven lover that faltered in the sunlight pouring from the window.

The two were meant to be friends, long ago, centuries maybe, till he said something that came out wrong and she screamed his name before he stifled her throat with his tongue, metaphorically. In truth, his tongue hardly could even reach her uvula, but he certainly tried.

Now she was by his side, or atop him, looking down at Marco’s uncomfortable gaze while his tongue tasted of her body and her knees rested at either end of his head.

Their armor scraped together, leather catching against itself in the motion of their lovemaking, the woman huffing desperately as Marco filled her hungrily and kissed sweetly at her lips.

She wanted to tell him to stop so she could take it all off, but here and now, so close to the end, she would rather burn across the finish line than risk coming in second.

But at least it shut her up.

Marco couldn’t just let the girl go. She was a Viking, a killer, a monster that would wreak its havoc on the next village over, taking the shape of a dark-haired five foot odd pale woman struggling to push her second and last raggedy boot from one foot without the leverage of the other.

He could kill her. He had the blade, blades, his fists and even a seven pound silver-drummed helmet that could bludgeon the girl to death… 

Just kill her and bury the body out in these woods. Wouldn’t even need to bury her. She was technically property at this point, and killing her wouldn’t be murder as much as carving a cock on his own armor wouldn’t be vandalism.

But then he’d be just like her, irredeemable, Godless and lost. 

His fist loosened, finally realizing he’d been incredibly tense thinking these terrible thoughts about the Viking. Her boot finally came off, and she breathed a sigh of relief as her tortured soles basked in the freedom of rest, her eyes landing on his, mouth closing shut and expression becoming stoic as it had every time she looked at the Warden.

He knew he should kill her, at least before she killed him. One wrong move, one small misstep in tying her binds, he’d be at the mercy of her while he slept or while he walked. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the fort on the singular horse Marco was allowed to take with him, a brown mare named Tinny by the stableman.

“I am hungry.” Her words came as the Warden swam in his thoughts, a raft of her prose to rescue him just as he had begun to think of Valkenheim and what he’d lost.

Yes, she was hungry. She had to be, for no food had been given to her since the sun rose, and now the sun was falling, already a stranger behind the encompassing forest line.

He, too, had foregone feeding himself. Too much had been on his mind on the ride this far out, the droning gallop of the horse under him and the Viking pushing his mind adrift once more until the beast neighed its concern. The sound was calm, pushing through the mare’s teeth, and her namesake came to be known in that tin tone, like a Conqueror thinking their voice could ever be heard behind their echoing helmet.

This hadn’t been the first time they stopped. As the sun lingered high above them, the Viking had slid down the horse when it slowed its pace going uphill, falling the five feet onto her rump and kicking up a wind of dirt and rolling pebbles before desperately rising to run as Marco climbed down the stirrups.

He could’ve let her go then. He knew what awaited for someone like her in these plains, dressed as she was in that burlap clothing and distasteful runic tattoos, this far away from any civilization that hadn’t been ravaged by Viking war parties in recent memory.

Die in the woods, or die in a town, lynched for her people’s crimes.

She walked the next fifty miles at the horse’s own pace, tied to the jug handle at the front of the saddle, shamed from how easily Marco had caught her and dragged her back by the torn hair on her scalp.

The Warden had brought provisions for the trip, however short it should be, in the form of dried fish and carrots, and offered one of each to the Viking before she glared at him and gestured to the bound wrists at her lap.

“I’m not going to untie you.” He spoke to her plainly, still offering the meal out to her.

“I cannot eat comfortably.” She replied immediately, never breaking the glare.

“Then eat uncomfortably.” Marco retorted, leaning over to place the dried fish on her lap before returning to stoking the fire he’d started.

The Viking was not happy with that decision, but resigned to eat, the crunch of the flesh in her mouth drawing a single glance from Marco as she picked the meat from the fish.

It was rather surprising, actually, now that he thought about it, that the Viking could speak the Latin tongue so easily. Her pronunciations were near perfect, with only a marked accent to denote her foreign origin. If he hadn’t been so consumed with his own thoughts, he might’ve brought it up then.

Seemed the Viking had other plans, however, taking a break from eating to look back at Marco and speak to him.

“I’m your slave.” She began, and the outline of her jaw became visible, more visible than before, as she tightened her mouth closed within her lips.

Maybe it should not have taken Marco so long to reply, but he didn’t know what to say. Confirm it, deny it… Ignore it?

“You’re my property.” He spoke, staring at the fire as it caught with a rage on the dried logs.

“You’re going to fuck me? Make me bear you some whelps and make them slaves, too?” The questions were aggressive, and it brought Marco’s gaze back to hers, where he saw the subtle glint of fear behind her anger. His eyes could hardly stay on her, looking at the blurry forest behind her, then at her, then at the fire once more.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to.” Marco muttered out to her, shifting uncomfortably. Children were the last thing on his mind, especially with a partner he hardly knew.

“I don’t want to be your slave. How about that? I want to go free. I want to go back to Valkenheim.” She had caught him in his words.

Marco glanced at her again, and shook his head.

“I can’t let you go.” 

“So which is it? You won’t make me do anything I don’t want to, or you will, and you’re just working up to fucking me?” The Viking asked again, still aggressively, pushing some of the Knight’s buttons.

So he leaned in from his seated position, almost hunched over.

“I’m not going to fuck you. I just can’t let you go.”

“What in Hel do you want from me? I’m not some work slave, look at me. You know what I did in Valkenheim?” She asked, waiting for him to reply.

The Warden shook his head and shrugged his shoulders disinterested in her story, slowly, looking back to the fire.

“... I was a shaman for my village. I was not a warrior. I’d never killed a Knight until the day your kind razed my people.” She recounted vaguely, waiting again for his reaction.

“But you did kill a Knight.” Marco replied, still as disinterested as before, trying to keep his emotions in check, to keep the fire in his mind and all else out.

“They were raping a girl… Three men. Three gallant Knights were tearing the clothes from the smith’s daughter, and I drove my blade into one’s neck before th-” The Shaman choked up, and she stopped, and that drew Marco’s attention back to her.

The Warden believed her. He believed her as she bowed her head down onto her lap, refreshed the dry fish her eyes had fallen atop of, and he thought of the bruises on her face and her arms and the back of her neck from where her dignity had been forcefully robbed from her in her own village.

He was never good at comforting. He’d never had much cause to comfort. Marizia was a force of nature, tears and emotion were distant concepts to that woman, unless they were tears caused by his hand tugging at her ponytail in the late nights they spent together.

Jonathon was the only person he’d held during their sobbing, when news of his father’s passing came through with the supply line, a letter from his mother like the one that Marco had received.

So, he replicated that now, sitting beside the Viking, the beaten woman, and held her closely as she battled those demons for the moment.

When she quieted down, the Warden retreated back into his stoicism, back to trying to separate himself from her grief amidst his own. He did not leave her side, only moved his hand to her bound wrists and held the rope.

“I can’t let you go. It would be… a grave shunning of my duties.” Marco started to speak to the Shaman, and she seemed worse for wear when she heard him.

“But I can promise you I don’t seek to hurt you…”

The Shaman closed her mouth again, looking down at his hand, then at him.

“What do you want from me then?” Her words came quietly, a whisper.

“There is a place. A house I’ve never been to, that I’ll be at tomorrow… I want you to see it, live there for a moment, and when the time is right, when this war ends and trade continues, return home.” The Warden answered calmly, his other hand drawing a dagger, coming down to slice at the rope.

She was free, and she rubbed her wrists, cautiously looking to Marco all the while before timidly nodding at his request.

“You are not like the others…” The Viking muttered to the man, freely dragging her feet on the ground under her to push away the dried leaves and rocks that populated it.

“On the contrary, I’m too much like the others…” He responded, getting up from the log as he sheathed his blade, walking the short steps back to his seat. She might not understand it now, but he had been through the same horror that those men that hurt her had, the same trauma that dehumanized her kind had infected him.

If she only knew what he’d thought of moments before they spoke, how he’d imagined killing her…

“What do I call you? Master?”

“... Marco.”

“Marco… I am Tove Falkenberg.” The Shaman introduced herself quietly again, watching the Warden nod sternly at her before lying down on his wooden lengthy seat, and she continued to eat.

Marco swallowed his anxiousness at having the Viking free, and looked at her, looking at how she ate and used a clawed hand to comb at her dark hair. She stuck a finger into her own mouth to feel at her teeth, one chipped in particular beside her front ones. He even watched her as she rested her face in her hands once more and sniffled, raising her head up to look at the sky and begin to mutter a prayer.

Sleep came without announcement, his thoughts occupied long enough with the Shaman to drift into unconsciousness before too long, at the mercy of whatever came next.


End file.
